Old Devil Moon
by The Blackjack
Summary: A traveler en route to the NCR signs on with a water caravan for safe passage through Legion territory. Little does he know that there's more to this group than meets the eye, sucking him into a torrent of lies, suspicion and betrayal.
1. The Flying T Reststop

It was the hottest summer on record. Sure, the Flying T only had about twenty years of records, but be that as it may, it still certainly knew heat. The sun baked the golden, sandy land to well over a hundred degrees this time of year, but this time it was even hotter than that. The stop's proprietor, old Henry Gable, lost twelve out of his fourteen Brahmin that year, and his wife nearly died of exposure one midday after she chased after a Gecko that wrangled off with their jerky into the hills. Even when times were tough though, Gable was still a damn decent man, and that's why when stranger burst through his doors carrying a heat stroked little girl he gave the lassie a bottle of water, free of charge. The two laid her down in the breeziest corner of the store, and while she seemed to be out of danger, he got to talking with this mystery man. "The little one'll make it. It was close, though. You got her here just in time."

The man gave a relieved smile. "That's real good to hear. I don't know what I'd do if I lost Maggie."

Gable look the man up and down. Now that the heat of the moment (no pun intended, mind you) had passed, he could tell that this man wasn't from around here. The clothes he wore weren't from any parts he knew, and looked to keep people warm by keeping heat in, rather than a more comfortable opposite way 'round. Gable got strange types in, to be sure, but not strange in this sort of way. "Where you from, partner?"

"A long way away," replied the man, "Out from the east coast. You'd never have heard of it."

Gable sauntered back over to the counter of the rest stop. "And what brings you and that little girl from all the way out there?"

"We're going to California," the man replied, with his apprehension vanishing, "You ever heard of the NCR?"

Gable raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Heard of 'em? Who in blazes hasn't?"

The man laughed. "Everybody out east, that's who! They say there's a government—a _real _government out there. They've got voting, and patrols, and homesteads."

"They got those, yep," said Gable, taking out another bottle of water from the counter. "Drink this. You'll die of thirst otherwise."

The stranger smiled and tossed some caps on the table. "Much obliged. Water's scarce in the Capital Wasteland too, but the sun isn't anything like this. Out there, everything's gray. Out here, it's all red."

He grabbed the bottle and damn near drank the whole thing in one gulp. Gable gave him an appraising glance. "You didn't come out here with enough water."

"I thought I did," replied the stranger, "But I went through it so much faster than I anticipated. I'm not used to the sun."

Gable frowned. The man was green, that was for sure. It was a damn miracle alone that he had even survived this, especially with the little girl in tow. "You still planning on heading west?"

"How could I stop now?"

"By being reasonable, for starters," replied Gable, "Route 6 ends about twelve miles down the road. Got directly hit during the war, and the rads'll kill you faster than the sun if you keep on. If you try to press north without a guide you'll get lost in the featureless wastes."

The stranger's face darkened in disappointment. "And supposing I went south?"

"That's Legion territory, my boy," said Gable, shaking his head, "And they'd just as likely enslave you as let you go free. I doubt you'd risk that, if only for the little girl's sake. It's all a moot point anyway, seeing that you'd need more water than you could carry if you're hoping to make it to St. George alive. I hate to tell you this, but trying to get to the NCR nowadays is tantamount to suicide."

The man collapsed into a nearby chair, on part due to despair and also because of his fatigue. He cradled his forehead with his hand, and let out one of those long, painful sighs that just breaks your heart. In fact, just hearing it was probably a greater hurt Old Gable more than the pain that was eating up in the other man's chest. The man gave another one of those horrible sighs before talking. "Are you sure?" he asked, although his voice didn't have much hope. "Maggie and me've been traveling for months. We can't quit now, you understand?"

Now it was Gable's turn to sigh, and wouldn't you know it, it was a different sort of noise. This was one of those long, hesitant sighs you give when you're thinking something over, but aren't quite sure if it's a good idea or not. Gable gave this, of course, because he was wondering if he should tell this mysterious stranger something, and he took a moment to decide, but he came around all the same. "… You don't happen to know how to handle a gun, do you?" began Gable, slowly, like a man walking across a thinly-frozen lake.

The stranger looked up at him. "I'd damn well hope so," he said.

"Well…" Gable continued, still walking across that icy pond, "There's a man camped out not far from here. Goes by the name of Ephraim Procter. He runs a water caravan headed out to Vault City. He's looking for more men to sign on to his party, apparently to defend it."

"And he'd have enough water to keep us alive," responded the stranger, his spirit now starting to stir, sort of like a half-dead campfire with some new fuel thrown on top of it.

"That's true," responded Gable, "But it's a queer operation. He says he needs guards, which is odd, seeing that the Legion doesn't much mess with traders such as himself. I asked him if he's got into a scuffle with them, but he denied it thoroughly."

"Why does he need mercs then?"

"For varmints, and perhaps raiders as the caravan leaves Legion territory. Still, he's already got a couple of good shots with him. There ain't no reason to take on a third, at least in no caravan I've ever seen."

The stranger stood up from his chair, now with renewed hope in him. "But still, a lead's a lead. If it's a choice between following that or being stuck here, I'd much rather move forward."

Old Gable nodded, looking a little glum. "I figured you'd say that. Well, maybe I'm just reading into things too much. It's probably the only way you'll make it to the NCR."

The other man picked up the little girl, who seemed to be coming round. He smiled down at her. "Don't stress yourself, Maggie, we've got a way to civilization yet."

He then turned back to Gable and gave the old-timer a smile, too. "Thanks for the tip. I won't forget it, Mr…?"

"Gable. Henry Gable," answered the owner from his creaky old mouth, "But think nothing of it…?"

"Billy Creel," responded the stranger, "Thanks again. See you around."

Creel left the store and the old, decaying door slammed shut behind him. Old Gable quickly went back to work. He'd lived a long life, and much odder stuff than that had happened to him. He probably chalked the meeting up as a little irregularity, but noting too far out of the ordinary. He'd never know the consequences of pointing that stranger off to the caravan would have on the Wasteland.


	2. The Procter Caravan

Billy Creel could smell the Brahmin train before he could see it, which often was the case in caravans of Procter's size. The beasts numbered some four-dozen in number, their heads braying in exhaustion and thirst from the unforgiving sun. The noise and the stench caused the little girl walking at Creel's side to step towards her protector. Creel looked down at the girl and ruffled her hair playfully. "Now now, Maggie," he said, "No need to be scared."

"I'm not scared..." she replied quietly.

Maggie was a girl no older than ten. Like all children of the wasteland, she was dirty and often scraped, but never looked hungrier than Creel. She naturally gravitated towards him at the first sign of danger, which probably contributed to the fact that she was still alive this far west. As the two neared the animals Creel noticed that, true to Gable's word, each one was carrying hundreds of pounds of water. He gave out a small whistle and tried to make a guess about how much each of these animals was worth. Together, they must've tallied up a small fortune. He took a step towards one and reached out to touch its scruffy hide. Even this far from the capital, all Brahmin still looked miserable.

Suddenly, though, he heard Maggie gasp. He turned his head quickly to see a woman nearby, who must've walked up to them from between the Brahmin. She was a strict looking woman of about thirty, with cold eyes and a humorless face. Creel couldn't quite make out what surprised him more—the fact that she had an expression more intimidating than a raider's, or the fact that she was so unusually _clean. _Everything about her was washed and prim, from her crisp pre-war outfit to her amazingly undamaged glasses—she almost looked like one of those ancient advertisement women that still stood on billboards along the blasted roads. She spoke up, her words sharp and to-the-point. "Why are you here? To rustle our herd?"

Creel gave a nervous laugh and put up his hands. "Rustle? Me? Oh, no. I'm just here because I heard you needed extra help with your caravan."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "We don't."

The response put Creel off-guard, but only for a moment. "Well, perhaps I can offer my help anyway? I've heard lots of stories about some legion around here. Perhaps you need another gun?"

"I highly doubt we need another weapon."

She didn't seem very inclined to talk. Maggie grabbed at Creel's jacket tightly, while Creel's attempts to keep any form of levity had given way to something between frustration and fear. The woman flicked her eyes down to the pistol Creel kept on his hip before speaking again. "You had best start expaining why you're really here—"

"Now, now, Miss Mallon," inturrupted another voice from behind the Brahmin, "There's no need to be so confrontational."

The woman turned to watch a man step out near her. He was much older, likely in his sixties, dressed in a dusty leather outfit that was almost as worn as he was. His face had eroded over the years to form canyons of scars and wrinkles, but there was a sort of easy amiability to him and a spark in his eyes that carried him like a man two decades younger, despite walking with what seemed to be a lame leg. He smiled at Creel. "My apologies for the cool welcome. Miss Mallon here doesn't mean anything insulting by it, she just wants to keep the caravan safe from ne'er-do-wells."

His friendliness was infectious, and Creel broke into a relieved smile despite Mallon's previous interrogation. "Oh, I understand completely, and take no offense," he said, putting his arms down. "Are you in charge of this outfit?"

The man nodded. "You guess correctly. My name is Ephraim Procter, founder and head of Procter Caravans. And if you'll forgive my accidental eavesdropping, young man, I heard that you have need for work?"

"Real bad, sir. I come from the Capital Wasteland, and am nearly at the end of my rope."

Procter looked him up and down, studying his weathered and beaten clothing. He also gave a look towards Maggie, who looked almost as travel-beaten as Creel. There was a gleam of sympathy in his eyes as he looked over the girl, and his smile nearly faltered. "The Captial Wasteland?" replied Procter, "My, my. That's certainly a long trip. Moreso seeing the little one with you. Your daughter, or perhaps sister...?"

"No, sir, Maggie's just my friend. We keep together, through thick and thin."

Mallon wrinkled her nose. "Caravans normally don't take on children."

"Now, Miss Mallon," Procter interjected, "It's not Christian to leave a little girl like this stranded so far from civilization, let alone this young man. What is your name, son?"

"Billy. Billy Creel."

"Billy Creel..." repeated Procter. He reached out his hand, and Creel clasped it. Procter's eyes turned thoughtful for a moment as they shook hands, but soon had his easy smile return to his face. "Yes, young man, I feel as though there's a space in the Procter Caravan for you."

Creel fought hard to contain his excitement. "Really? Thank you, sir!"

"But there are conditions to this arrangement," added Procter, now with a hint of firmness to his voice.

"What do you mean?" replied Creel, his voice a little more sober.

"Nothing horrible, son," replied Procter, "Just a few basic rules of the caravan. The first is a bit of a trade secret on our part. We'll be taking an alternate route than normal to St. George's, a little rougher than the norm, but it shaves days off the standard trip. It gives me the edge in my business, so I can't have you telling my competitors about this path."

Creel nodded, "Sounds fair."

Mallon turned her frigid glare towards Creel. "This also forfeits your rights to study any maps you may find in camp or inquire to our itinerary."

Creel nodded again, although this one a little less spirited than the last. "Again, sounds fair," he replied, in a rather less magnanimous tone.

Procter shook his head. "Now, what Miss Mallon means is that we don't like hired hands to learn too much about our little route. I know you're trustworthy, son, but I've had some scoundrels in the past. Now, as for the second condition, I'm going to have to ask you to hand over your gun."

"My gun?" replied Creel, this time somewhat defensive.

"I know it's a lot to ask," said Procter, "But we only let the caravan guards carry firearms. This goes for everyone on the Brahmin train. Again, I trust you, Billy, but this is simply a policy I demand of all my employees."

Mallon adjusted her glasses. "All weapons must be confiscated. More caravans have been killed by internal treachery than you know, Mr. Creel."

Creel set his hand on his holster. He hadn't parted from his pistol in years. You couldn't in the wasteland. And yet as he glanced to Maggie's cracking lips and the giant barrels of water strapped to the Brahmin, he knew what had to be done. "... I... I guess so..." he conceded, unbuckling the holster from his hip.

"Thank you, Billy," said Procter, "We'll be sure to get it back to you once you part ways."

"Surrender your ammo as well," added Mallon.

"Naturally," muttered Creel as he fished out his bullets from his outfit. He handed them over to Mallon, who seemed all too ready to hide them away out of his sight. Immediately Creel felt his hip feel uncomfortably lighter, and almost felt like he had lost a limb. He had no time to dwell on the issue, however, as Procter gave him a broad smile. "That's mighty kind of you Billy. Now, you'll be paid in water and food every day. I'll even provide board for Maggie for free."

"That's very generous of you, sir," said Creel.

"Think nothing of it."

A second passed as the group stood before Creel spoke up again. "So, I don't suppose I can ask when we're heading out?"

Mallon frowned. "According to the first provision of your contract, no."

"But I think we can make an exception this time," added Procter with a laugh. "You're in luck, Billy, as we're headed south tomorrow. Why don't you head off with Miss Mallon and meet the other members of our outing?"

The prospect didn't make Creel very happy, but he agreed all the same. "Sounds like a plan, sir. I'll see you later."

"You most certainly will," replied Procter, starting to turn around, "Welcome to the Procter Caravan."

Procter walked off, his gait awkward from his lame leg. Meanwhile, Mallon wasted no time in setting off, not even waiting to see if Creel would follow. Creel and Maggie followed, neither seemingly pleased to be in the company of this woman. Still, Creel couldn't help but grin. This caravan was one of the most important things that had happened to him in his life. St. George's was apparently the gateway to New Vegas, which itself was the path to the NCR. Soon, he figured, he'd see the fabled land of California.

He figured wrong about that, of course. Still, he wasn't so far off thinking that this caravan would be important.


End file.
